Blood drizzled from the sky. The grass, the trees, the rocks, all were covered in blood. Droplets trickled down, merging together to form rivers that poured into massive pools. A sweet, metallic smell filled the air.

  “Why?” the word echoed in the redness.

  The man turned around. Why indeed? Was it because they had told him so? Was it because of his orders? Or maybe it was due to his nature? That was the reason for which he was born—to constantly fight and kill in the endless downpour of blood.

  “Where?” a new word echoed.

  The man turned towards the nearby hill.

  Anywhere, he thought. Anywhere they tell me. And wherever I go, everything will turn red…

  “When?”

  Anytime, the man thought. In space there was no day or night, no spring or winter. There was only rest and a time to kill.

  The blood had reached his knees. There was no sign of the ground as if it had never existed. Only the trunks of the trees and the hills remained, though not for too much longer.

  “Was it worth it?”

  The cabin lights flashed on. The electronic lock clicked open moments before the door slid to the side. Two men in gray army uniforms entered the room, stopping just beyond the threshold. The entire space was filled with thick white mist, making it impossible to see beyond. Slowly, one of the men extended his hand forward, watching it disappear in the cloudlike substance.

  “Wake up, Iskar,” the other man said. “We’ve arrived.”

  Initially, nothing happened. After a few seconds, the mist stirred. Pulling in towards itself, it solidified to form the body of a young man. His long blond hair went all the way to his waist, much in contrast to the others’ buzz cut.

  With the fog gone, the rest of the cabin was clearly visible. As everything in space, it was small, barely three feet by six. There was no bed, no furniture, not even a space for personal belongings. The only luxury was a small clothes section containing several military uniforms—all that Iskar ever needed.

  “Sleep trouble?” the man who had spoken earlier asked.

  “The usual nightmares, Major.” Iskar put on his uniform. “This time I was drowning in a sea of blood.”

  “You’ve been taking your meds, right?”

  “Yes, Major.”

  “Must be from the baptism,” the officer said. “I’ve heard that it gets better with time.”

  “I doubt it.”

  The major instantly regretted his words. What could he possibly know? Compared to Iskar, he was no different than a recruit fresh from the shuttle. The blond had half a century of active service; he had participated in some of the most important battles of the Orthodoxy; he had quelled revolts, clashed against the Empire, destroyed entire heretic corporations… What could a thirty-year kid say that the dragon hadn’t experienced first-hand?

  “How’s it going, Lieutenant?” Iskar glanced at the other man. He was also a battle-hardened veteran, although he’d only seen ten years of fighting. “Did you learn how to play chess?”

  “Parade uniform,” the lieutenant replied.

  Here it was again, the typical military humor: leave him to get fully dressed before mentioning that he had to change uniforms. Iskar was also at fault, though. He could have asked before starting. Normally he would have. Clearly, the scenes from his nightmare hadn’t fully faded away. Or maybe it was just a result of the trip? There was something about space travel that the dragon just couldn’t get used to. Each time space folded, he felt like puking his guts out. It was almost as if the fields of astrophysics and theoscience had deliberately been invented to cause him harm.

  The officers patiently waited for Iskar to get dressed, then led him along the maze of narrow corridors to the bridge. A few techs passed them on the way. With the majority of human soldiers still in their hypno-capsules, the massive ship felt deserted. The only people actively out and about were techs, emergency crews, and military-priests.

  Unlucky bastards, Iskar thought as he passed a pair of officers with a black cross embroidered on their uniforms. They were the second most despised people on the ship, almost as despised as he was. Soldiers and officers didn’t trust them, since they constantly reported to the Church, and the actual clergy viewed them as inferior. It would take years, possibly decades, for them to gain acceptance. No wonder that most military-priests ended their service after one or two tours.

  Iskar and the pair entered a larger chamber, leading to the bridge elevators. From here it was straight up to see the command staff.

  “Finally!” a yell filled the air.

  Instantly, all three stood to attention and gave a salute. Only one person on the ship had the authority and temperament to shout freely about: Rear Admiral Lien, the direct commander of the vessel, as well as several auxiliary fleets.

  “Do you know the headaches I had to go through to get you here?” The admiral made his way to Iskar. The pomp and majesty of his white and green uniform clashed with the man’s small stature. “Sevel flotillas had to be organized to compensate for our absence. And all this at a time when the Empire is strengthening its positions!

  “Just following orders, Admiral,” Iskar replied. “I know little of military strategy.”

  That was the rear admiral’s weak point. Despite his physical shortcomings, the man had proven himself adept in complex military planning, helping him rise up the ranks.

  “Do you think I don’t know that, dragon?!” Lian snapped back. “That’s why I ordered you here! There’s something we must discuss before I send you off to the Michaels.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The Order of Saint Michael? This was the first Iskar heard of this. Interesting that no one has shared that detail up to now. It was even more interesting that such an important Order would get involved in something as insignificant as seeding-ship malfunctions. That was a matter usually reserved for the usual cadre of spies and experts that the Orthodoxy had at hand. Whatever the real purpose of the mission was, Iskar already knew that he wouldn’t like it. As the saying went, when in trouble send in the unnaturals.

  It was entirely thanks to them that the United Orthodoxy had achieved its dominant role in the galaxy. Not that many centuries ago, they lived in clay huts with a medieval understanding of their own world. Now, thousands of worlds had been colonized, not counting the multitude of space stations and generational-ships. If it hadn’t been for the dryads and dragons, though, the New Roman Empire would have remained on top.

  After humanity had reclaimed Earth, the empire had been the first to restore its forgotten technological knowledge. Determined never to put humanity at risk, they had reached for the stars. The claim remained heavily contested by the Orthodox Church, but the truth was that the Empire had cracked the secret of space travel and were the first to take their pick of planets: vast, inhabitable, and rich in natural resources. Many of the planets were as good as Earth itself, some were even better. It was only then, faced with the threat of being left behind, that the Orthodox Patriarchs had resorted to making use of the creatures that had previously enslaved them. That day the concept of neo-baptism was invented, changing human history forever. That day, Iskar’s kind had become humanity’s tools under the strict auspices of the Church. Two servant-species were established: dryads whose goal was to terraform “useless” planets and dragons to win wars. The practice remained a topic of discussion to this very day, but there could be no doubt that the Church had used the unnaturals well.

  “The incidents are immaterial,” Lien continued. “Maybe there’s something behind it, maybe not. It’s the speculation that’s dangerous, especially in the current moment.”

  “You suspect that there’s a spy in the group, sir?” Iskar couldn’t stop himself from interrupting the rear admiral’s speech.

  “Have you been listening at all?! Of course there’s a spy or two. That’s not the point! We’re already practically at war with the Empire, so how much worse can it get? The real concern is what if someone else is involved?”

  Images of blood flashed through Iskar’s mind. He’d be called to fight again.

  “The Orthodoxy and the Empire have been at each other’s throats for decades. There have been skirmishes, political maneuvering, sabotage, even deals with the blasted conglomerates. We’re virtually on the brink of all-out war, and now, conveniently, these “strange” incidents rise to the forefront. I’d call that a pretty big coincidence.”

  “You’re suggesting that it has been planned, sir?”

  “I’ve fucking no idea and that’s the problem! And that’s precisely why I want you to keep your eyes open. You might be a dragon, but you’re my dragon! And that means don’t trust anyone. Even the Michaels.”

  You never were the subtle type, sir, Iskar thought.

  The admiral’s fears were founded. The man couldn’t openly mention it, but it was no secret that tensions between the old and newfound words had been steadily increasing. Only open war with the Empire would put an end to the tensions, causing the entire Orthodoxy to decisively unite under one banner. It was entirely within the realm of possibilities that some patriarch had decided to push things along to get his way, lighting the fuse to this huge powder keg.

  “Go on,” the rear admiral grumbled. “Get out of here. And remember. Eyes wide open!”

  “Aye, sir.” Internally, the dragon sighed. Once again, he was thrust into an impossible situation.

  Meanwhile, light-years away, the Imperial Frigate Saint Sebastian was facing issues of its own. According to recent reports, there had been an alarming increase of Orthodox activity in the current region of space. Just in the last few months, twelve frigates and thirty-eight destroyers had been sighted in the sector. Of further concern, none of the Imperial strategists had managed to discern the reason for the action. The sector of space had no strategic importance whatsoever; there were no significant planets, it had no logistic importance, and was too far away to serve as an adequate staging area for an attack. The Empire had carefully explored the region of space over a decade ago and concluded that it wasn’t worth the resources to even build a lookout post. Had the Orthodoxy made a mistake, or had they discovered something the Empire had missed?

  “Monsignor, the captain confirms that no foreign presence has been found,” an officer reported. “There were traces of jump signatures, but they belong to small vessels, likely smugglers.”

  “Damned rats,” Monsignor d’Elisia grumbled. “If we come across any of them, I want them captured or killed, whichever’s faster.”

  “As you say, Monsignor.”

  “Anything else?”

  The officer hesitated.

  “It’s almost three o’clock, Monsignor.”

  D’Elisia glared at the man. It wasn’t the officer’s job to remind him of his obligations. Such insolence merited punishment. Even so, for the sake of the mission, the monsignor had to remain forgiving. Too much was at stake.

  “Dismissed.” D’Elisia waved.

  The officer bowed, crossed himself, and left the cabin. Barely had he done so when all screens on the walls spontaneously turned on, displaying the calm, smiling face of Cardinal Evens.

  “Rather kind of the boy to remind you,” the cardinal said. “It would have been unfortunate if you had forgotten our meeting.”

  D’Elisia instantly stood up and bowed. As calm as the cardinal sounded, it was well known just how merciless he could be. All the cardinals were. No one in the New Roman Empire reached a high position on good deeds and mercy alone. Those who tried usually ended up in the Order of Mercy.

  “We haven’t come across any traces of enemy ships,” D’Elisia said, even if he suspected the cardinal to be already aware. “I would like your permission to continue along the pre-arranged course.”

  “That would be the logical thing to do. Fortunately, the Holy Father and I are of a different opinion. You’re to head to Centurion marker eighty-two, where you will rendezvous with the hundred-and-first, eighth, and ninety-seventh fleets.”

  Three fleets? That was the equivalent of declaring war. D’Elisia, like everyone else in the Imperial army, knew that war with the United Orthodoxy was inevitable, yet even he didn’t suspect that it might come so soon. Three fleets weren’t enough to bring victory, but were more than adequate to conduct the initial strike. With adequate strategic planning, this would be enough to create a wedge between Earth and several newfound sectors of the enemy, creating mass chaos. Was that the plan? As much as D’Elisia wanted to know, he was aware that his contributions weren’t enough to allow him to ask.

  “As you say, Cardinal,” he said after a short delay.

  “D’Elisia, you’re overthinking things again,” the cardinal’s annoying laughter filled the room. “It’s bad for the health and could also lead to doubts. I trust your faith in the Holy Father remains absolute?”

  “My faith in the Empire and the Holy Father has no bounds,” the monsignor instinctively replied.

  “Just as I thought. Make sure that it remains that way. I don’t like working with new people. It’s annoying and costs time I don’t have.”

  “I won’t fail you, Cardinal.” The monsignor bowed lower.

  “I’m counting on that.” The cardinal’s smile widened. “Do this right and I’ll recommend you for the post of Holy Inquisitor.”

  D’Elisia didn’t say a word. He had heard the rumors that the papal council was considering granting more powers to inquisitors. It was a complicated issue among the clergy. Some saw it as necessary, while others were fearful it would become an independent institution parallel to the established order. Yet, if further control within the empire was necessary, d’Elisia would be a fool not to take advantage of the offer.

  “As you say, Cardinal,” the monsignor said firmly.

  All that he had to worry about in the immediate future was the successful completion of his mission, whatever it turned out to be. Everything else could wait.